


The Only Easy Day, Was Yesterday

by SirYeetusDeletus



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), Highschool DxD (Anime)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27636158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirYeetusDeletus/pseuds/SirYeetusDeletus
Summary: When it is unveiled that the Hyoudous are being targeted by wanted terrorists, it is up to Ghost to save them—the last remnants of his family on this world. He expected just another group of Ultranationalists. What he got was a supernatural world of magic, devils, angels, and catgirls hidden in plain sight. Magic or not, he wasn’t about to let the bastards run without a leash.
Kudos: 2





	The Only Easy Day, Was Yesterday

**A/N: Moving shit over from FFN to AO3. Not abandoning FFN.**

* * *

"AMBUSH!" Lieutenant Simon Ghost Riley roared. The crack of gunfire was harsh against his ears, and he was forced to duck as bullets whizzed by his head at supersonic speed. He scowled at the enemy combatants to his left—they had a vantage point from a cliffside overlooking his current position.

His assault rifle snapped up and he fired three shots, killing two of the enemy mercenaries. Before their corpses could even fall to the ground, Ghost had already killed two more. Every shot was aimed precisely to kill, and every bullet met their mark with impossibly deadly accuracy.

"TARGETS! LEFT SIDE! LEFT SIDE!" His shouting was briefly acknowledged by the rest of Strike Team, but they had their hands full at the moment. The enemy was coming at them from all sides in a pincer attack, dividing Strike Team on either side. It was a good tactic, considering how skilled each member of the Task Force was; if two men from the 141 could take out an entire army base of steel by themselves, then dividing their manpower would be advisable.

Another bullet struck the dirt by Ghost's feet as he hurried to the right. He quickly identified the shooter and returned fire, dropping the target in one hit before shifting his aim to the right and shooting three more enemies. One of the mercenaries mounted an RPG on their shoulder and aimed at the Operator.

Ghost eyed the tango cautiously. Anticipating the shot, he was diving to the side before the rocket was even fired—even then, the warhead barely missed him, skimming past his shoulder at the speed of sound.

An explosion followed, and Ghost shielded his face to protect it from the blast. The operator fired a single shot in return, aiming for the tango's launcher rather than the tango himself. A colossal explosion followed, the rocket detonating on the bullet's impact, subsequently detonating other rockets on the mercenary's person. Men yelped as they were torn apart or thrown into the air from shrapnel and the force of the shockwave. A large chunk of the cliffside collapsed, bringing several tangos with it, making the ground shake.

With that, a large amount of the enemy force on the left side was taken out, relieving some of the Strike Team's stress. The balaclava-clad operator said nothing, running past the destruction and into cover, firing shots with marksman accuracy.

"Targets, three o'clock!"

"I've got em' in my sights!"

"He's down!"

"Target neutralized!"

"Changing mag!"

"Solid copy!"

"RPG! Get down!"

In all honesty, Ghost couldn't say that he _wasn't_ anticipating an ambush. Having dealt with these kinds of terrorists before, he knew what to expect from them. Unfortunately, his hunch had been proven correct.

Strike Team was only a small, temporary group of six operators from Task Force 141—an anonymous counterterrorist group of the greatest individually selected warriors on the planet. Each member had Special Operations experience prior to joining and had been the best of the best from their respective armies. In the 141, they had been trained for every situation, including this one. Each soldier had the abilities to hold out against an army by themselves should the event ever occur. If one could describe them, they would be described as _terrifying._

Recently, General Shepherd—the direct commander of Task Force 141—had secured intel detailing the information they needed for their latest operation. As a counterterrorist group, the 141 had been working tirelessly to track down and eliminate Vladimir Makarov, the leader of a terrorist group that has been involved in atrocities around the world. Human trafficking, mass genocide, bombing, money laundering, drug smuggling, robbery—you name it he's done it. Not long ago, things have gotten dicey with Makarov's latest stunt; a calculated attack on Zachaev International Airport that initiated a war between Russia and the US. It wasn't hard to tell that a lot of people wanted this man dead. As a matter of fact, he was the CIA's most wanted terrorist.

This was the reason Strike Team was here right now in the Caucasus Mountains. According to the intel, Makarov had only two safe-havens left on the planet, one of which was here. The other one was in Afghanistan, where Captain Price and Soap had been sent to deal with it.

Unfortunately, it would seem that Makarov's forces had been prepared.

Among the rapid pops and cracks of gunfire, Ghost heard a faint whistling coming from above. He didn't need to look to know what it was.

"They've got this area pre-sighted for mortar fire!" Scarecrow warned. The ground erupted around them as mortars came down sporadically in no particular order, tearing trees apart and reducing rocks to dust. At the end of the treeline, smoke grenades were being popped by the enemy.

It didn't take long for Ghost to deduce what was going on; the mortars were being used to soften and disorient the Strike Team, forcing them to move forward into the smoke and engage in CQB whilst also covering the enemy's own advances. It was a sound plan—or, at least it would have been, except for one thing: the 141 were _masters_ of CQB. Not only were the enemy using a smokescreen that would blind themselves, but they were forcing their own troops to fight against experts of close quarters combat and stealth. In layman's terms, the enemy just crippled themselves.

"Counterattack into the smoke! Push! Push! Push!" the lieutenant urged. Within seconds, the three other member of the frontal assault group were pushing against the enemy forces and into the smoke. The other two members, Sniper Team One, provided overwatch from afar, lying atop a small overhang in the distance.

The gunfire died down substantially as the team was hidden in the smoke cloud.

Ghost moved through the smoke fluidly, unheard and unseen like a speck of dust in the air. His stealthiness was matched only by his lethality, much like his moniker implied. His face was concealed behind an intimidating balaclava with a skull designed on it—a symbol of what he once was, and what he had become. It was funny to think that a couple decades back, the concept of killing would have made him queasy. Now, taking the life of another was as easy as breathing.

As he swept through the grove, he listened for the shouts of hostiles and their movements. One bullet at a time he struck them down, watching as their silhouettes lifelessly fell to the ground. His rifle grew hotter with each consecutive shot, and eventually the barrel was smoking.

The magazine clicked empty just as he rounded the base of a tree, and a hidden mercenary jumped at him with a combat knife. Ghost's training kicked in immediately; he dropped his rifle and let it hang from his shoulder, grasping the hostile's knife hand by the wrist and twisting to the side. The operator closed the distance and threw his elbow into the mercenary's face, shattering his nose. As the hostile faltered, Ghost wrapped his arm around the assailant's throat and yanked downward, smashing him into the ground. A swift stomp on the neck crushed the spine and the trachea, killing the mercenary in a brutal fashion. With that, the lieutenant reloaded his rifle and continued on.

On the other side of the grove, Roach was laying rounds into anything that moved. To people that didn't know him, Roach was a quiet and reserved guy who didn't like speaking when he didn't need to. In reality, Roach's larynx was damaged in battle back in 2011 when he went hand-to-hand with a particularly skilled Ultranationalist, effectively rendering him mute. Those who knew wondered if it was even legal for him to still be fighting. It probably wasn't.

As he pushed forward, Roach heard a group of voices, maybe five or six, shouting at each other in a panic. He grabbed a grenade and lobbed in their direction, and was rewarded by more panicked yelling.

" _GRENADE!_ "

An explosion promptly followed, tangos screaming as they were torn apart by the shrapnel. A series of rapid footsteps alerted Roach to an incoming straggler and he pulled a knife from his vest before throwing it into the smoke.

" _Augh!_ "

A body tumbled through the smoke a moment later, landing at the operator's feet. The mute pulled the knife from the skull of the corpse and moved on, taking a moment to check his ammo.

Nearby, Ozone and Scarecrow dodged between trees methodically as they put rounds into enemy forces. A yell sounded out from behind them, and Ozone whipped around to see a tango coming at him with the butt of an empty rifle. The American shot the mercenary in the chest with a single round, but it wasn't enough to put the hostile down. The tango surged forward, intent on bashing the operator on the head, but Ozone blocked the strike by holding his own rifle horizontally before pushing the weapon to the side, making the mercenary stumble. Ozone grabbed the mercenary by the vest and turned around just in time to block two shots from another one.

Scarecrow fired at the shooter, killing him in two shots before positioning himself behind Ozone, using the tango from earlier as a shield. They made a short distance until the smoke began to clear up, at which point they ditched the body and ran for cover.

Not a moment too soon and a barrage of bullets were coming their way, chipping at the rock they crouched behind. Roach slid up behind them, giving them a short wave of the hand as he approached.

"Nice of you to join the party, Roach," Ozone quipped. He peeked over the boulder for a second, ducking back down with wide eyes. "RPG!"

The American operator dove to the ground, prompting the others to do the same as the boulder was blown to smithereens.

Grunting silently, Roach pulled himself to a crouch and took aim at the RPG, only for their head to suddenly explode into gory bits. The operator blinked.

" _Tango down. Strike Team we've got you covered up until you get to the target building, gonna have some fun up here,_ " came Archer's voice over the radio.

Roach nodded—mostly because he couldn't verbally communicate in any way, shape, or form—before glancing to his right, catching sight of Ghost entering from god-knows-where.

The mute hurried over to his commanding officer, taking cover behind another tree. He gave the lieutenant a quizzical look, even as more bullets ripped the environment apart around them.

"I've been cleaning house if that's what your asking—" Ghost tilted his head to the side, "Ozone! Tango at your three o'clock!"

"Target sighted!"

The lieutenant looked back at the Sergeant. "Let's move, Roach. . . Go! Go! Go! Covering fire!" Then he rushed off into battle.

The four frontline operators fanned out, each one pushing forward in tandem with one another. Makarov's forces started panicking as they fell apart, but it was too late. Those who retreated were taken out by Sniper Team One while any remaining fighters were swiftly and efficiently neutralized by Strike Team.

" _Shit, where are they? I can't see them—Agh!_ "

" _Victor? Damn it! Man down—Ugh!_ "

" _Alex! Oh hell, I'm out of here—Gah!_ "

" _We need reinforcements—Ack!_ "

...

"That's the last of em'," Ozone reported.

Ghost nodded his approval. In a battle of six against sixty, the 141 managed to completely eliminate the other side in _two minutes_. Terrifying indeed.

"Copy. Converging on the target building now." As they approached the safehouse—an admittedly fabulous looking two-story log cabin—Ghost spotted two trucks leaving the lot. "Don't let those trucks get away!"

" _Roger. Sniper Team One firing javelins, danger close._ "

"Copy that, danger close. Everyone get away from the road!" Ghost shouted. The operators positioned themselves to the side of the road and watched the spectacle. Just as it seemed that the trucks were escaping, two javelin missiles came screaming down from above. The missiles impacted, and the trucks were turned into burning piles of scrap metal.

" _Be advised, we have not, I repeat, we have not spotted Makarov, and no one else has left the house. Those trucks may have been decoys. Over,_ " Archer informed.

Ghost nodded to himself. "Copy that, advancing on the house now. Clear the perimeter!"

Several mercenaries began surrounding the house, taking defensive positions as the operators approached. As the battle started up again, Ghost couldn't shake the sudden feeling of foreboding that he got. Something big was coming, but what? His gut told him that he didn't want to find out.

VVVVV

"Clear!"

Breach and clear had been quick, clean, and brutal. Strike Team went room to room, taking the house by storm. They took the first floor first, then moved on to the basement, finishing with the second floor. Makarov's men didn't stand a chance in hell.

By the time the last room was cleared, the team realized that Makarov himself was nowhere to be found. This meant that the bastard was either in Afghanistan—something they all hoped—or the intel was off.

Now, there was nothing left to do but collect information and contact command.

Strike Team rallied on the first floor while Sniper Team One watched from a distance, making sure that nobody snuck up on the operators inside.

Ghost was waiting with rifle pointed to the floor in a relaxed position when the others arrived. Once they did, he nodded towards Scarecrow.

"Scarecrow, photographs."

"Copy that, sir." Scarecrow pulled out a small, fist-sized camera and wandered around the house, taking pictures of anything that looked important. As he did so, Ghost activated his communications headset, taking a lazy stance. The rest of his team waited patiently, walking around the room and looking over anything that seemed interesting.

"Shepherd, this is Ghost. No sign of Makarov, I repeat, no sign of Makarov. Captain Price, any luck in Afghanistan?"

There was silence for a second before a gruff, battle-hardened voice spoke through the comms. It was Price. " _Plenty...at least fifty hired guns here, but no sign of Makarov. Perhaps our intel was off._ "

Ghost snorted. "Well, the quality of the intel is about to change. This safehouse is a bloody goldmine."

Another deeper, scratchier voice came online—General Shepherd. " _Copy that. Ghost, have your team collect everything you can for an operations playbook. Names, places, everything._ "

"We're already on it sir. Makarov will have nowhere to run."

" _That's the idea. Shepherd out._ "

Price hummed into the radio. " _Ghost, we've got more tangos arriving on scene. Soap and I are going to go radio silent for a while. Good luck up there in Russia. Price out._ "

Ghost stood idly for a moment. Makarov definitely wasn't going to let them out scot-free. There were probably enemy forces coming to stop them right now.

"Roach, start the download, Ozone cover the kitchen. Makarov's men will do whatever they can to stop us from leaving here alive. We need to hold until the download finishes. Defensive positions, let's go!"

The operators nodded, going off to do their jobs. Whether it was intentional or a mistake, Makarov had left a computer with a fuck-ton of information to download. Hopefully it would give the 141 the edge they needed to take him out.

Ghost was about to set up near the front entrance when Scarecrow called to him through the radio.

" _Ghost, there's something you need to see in the basement._ " His voice was low and urgent.

For some reason, the feeling of foreboding doubled.

"Copy, on my way—this better be important Scarecrow." He turned to the only other person in the room. "Roach, cover the entrance."

Roach gave him a thumbs up as he walked past. Burning with anticipation, he spotted Scarecrow standing near an open door in the basement. The lieutenant followed him into the room, and his eyes widened at what he saw.

He whistled appreciatively, "Bloody hell, look at all this."

There was everything here, possibly even more than what was on the computer. The far wall was covered in maps, graphs, printed and written documents, pictures, and more.

Ghost froze upon seeing one particular name among the hundreds of papers on the wall.

Amelia Hyoudou.

...Oh _hell no_.

His heart dropped and the feeling of foreboding turned into a suffocating dread that was determined to choke him.

"Impossible," he muttered. Nobody should know of that name. Hell not even Shepherd or Soap knew that name, how the hell did Makarov get hold of it!?

He tore the document from the wall, skimming it over with frantic eyes. It was a capture order for five million US dollars.

' _Amelia. Issei._ ' The dread became rage, and Ghost _growled_.

He failed to protect them the first time, and they paid the consequences. When they needed him most, he hadn't been there...now they were gone. Because of him, they were lost forever.

Now it was happening again—but this time, it was a fucking game, and for five million, people will definitely come to play it.

Ghost almost tore Scarecrow to shreds in his anger when he put a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder.

"Sir? Ghost!?"

"We have to go."

"What?"

Ghost whipped around, and Scarecrow recoiled at the burning hatred in the operator's eyes. Malice seemed to pour out of them, even through the reflective sunglasses that the lieutenant wore.

"We have to go! NOW!"

Scarecrow was taken aback. "But what about the mission?"

"Fuck the mission! I've got to—"

" _Archer to Ghost, you've got a massive army of unknowns converging on your location! SHIT! They're attacking! Get the hell out of—_ "

The very foundations of the house were shaken as the building was bombarded by explosions. Dust fell from the ceiling and tables and chairs tumbled over. The operators nearly lost balance and had to use the walls to support themselves.

The wooden beams that held the basement up creaked under the pressure, and Ghost swore he could hear the house groaning. The beams splintered, and the shaking got even worse.

"Archer! What the _hell_ is going on up there!?" Ghost demanded, steadying himself.

A large piece of the ceiling collapsed, forcing Scarecrow to jump out of the way.

" _Strike Team get out of there! The building is on the verge of collapse!_ " Archer warned.

Ghost and Scarecrow met eyes.

"GO! GO! MOVE YOUR ASS!" The lieutenant shoved the man through the door, following behind at a break-neck pace. Pieces of the ceiling collapsed around them as they ran, their weapons dangling from their straps.

They reached the rear exit and dove out just as the rest of the building collapsed behind them. A massive cloud of dust and debris was sent hundreds of meters into the air, and a roaring fire burst from the remains of the house.

The shockwave sent the two flying much farther than they intended, and they tumbled down the hillside in a Hollywood style fashion. They stopped at the base of a lake where a small shed had been built to house a canoe.

Ghost groaned as he shakily pulled himself to his feet. He looked around and saw Scarecrow sprawled out on his left, grunting in pain.

He walked over and helped the man to his feet before looking back at the remains of the house. There was nothing left save for a few sections of walls and support beams that still stood strong among a pile of flaming debris.

Ghost inwardly cursed. All of the evidence was gone. All of the plans, the maps, the documents—everything.

He pressed a finger to his headset. "Ozone do you copy?"

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Ozone replied.

" _Roach and I are green...we've got the DSM_."

The lieutenant sighed in relief. They were okay, AND they managed to get the downloaded intel. He looked at Scarecrow, who gave him a thumbs up.

"Copy that, Scarecrow and I are green as well." He glanced back at the house. "Archer, what's the situation?"

" _Ghost, we've got an entire army of unknowns converging on your position. They don't seem to be using any weapons but regardless they've got to be packing some heavy weaponry to have done that damage,_ " the sniper sighed exasperatedly, " _Sir we don't have enough time for exfil to get here, and the safe house is a lost cause. We've gotta bail._ "

Archer was right. With the safe house gone there was no point in sticking around. There was no cover anywhere, and with the amount of heat the unknowns were packing, Ghost wasn't sure if cover would even help. The best choice was to leave, but there was nowhere to go, unless...

"All teams abort mission. Rally in the field on the west side of the house. I saw a jeep we can use to get out of here—I'll try to get it up and running. Everyone move it, double time!"

VVVVV

The truck jumped again as it hit another bump in the terrain. All of the operators bounced uncomfortably, grumbling in irritation. There were only five seats, but there six of them, so one of them had to sit in the trunk. If the situation weren't so grim, someone might have pointed out how awkward they all looked, what with all of their differing appearances.

Ghost was the most intimidating looking. As always, he wore his prized balaclava with a pair of tactical sunglasses and a communications headset. Sitting on his lap was his ACR—the most versatile assault rifle in his opinion—modified to his liking. If it wasn't obvious enough, the man was a Brit.

In the passenger's seat sat Archer, one of the British snipers clad in a full-body ghillie suit. If he was being honest, sitting in this damn thing was getting uncomfortable really fast. It was hot and itchy, two things that he really didn't like, especially in tandem with one another.

In the second row of seats sat Ozone, Toad, and Scarecrow. Ozone sat on the left, and, being an American wore nothing on his head but a cap that had the US flag sewn onto it.

Scarecrow, the other American, wore something a bit more conspicuous than anyone else. Protecting his head was the traditional ballistic helmet, but with a camouflaged net draped over it that shadowed his face. If people didn't know him better they would have called him a creep for wearing it.

Toad, the second British sniper, wore identical clothing to Archer, save for a small difference in color.

In the trunk of the jeep, Roach laid on the floor, deep in thought. His usual get-up was the generic undesignated tactical headgear with a pair of tactical goggles and a balaclava.

Most people had an odd relationship with Roach. Instead of learning sign language, he developed a series of meaningful gestures that _somehow_ communicated his thoughts and feelings.

To this day, he could make a solid argument with someone just from shrugging his shoulders or making faces. It was interesting to say the least.

For a short while, nobody spoke, the only sound being the hum of the engine as the vehicle sped down the mountain. The atmosphere wasn't really tense per se, just awkward in that nobody had anything to say. At some point, someone finally cleared their throat with a little too much zeal.

It turned out to be Ozone who was unconsciously fiddling with his rifle. "So...uh, shouldn't we contact command? I don't think the situation can get much worse."

As if on cue, the radio channel was suddenly filled with chatter.

" _Come in, Ghost!_ " Price demanded through the comms. The sound of gunfire and explosions were prevalent in the background.

"Ghost checking in. What's happening?"

" _Ghost, we're under attack by Shepherd's men in the boneyard! Soap, hold the left flank! Do not trust Shepherd! I say again, DO NOT TRUST SHEPHERD! SOAP! Get down!_ "

...

...

The sound of static resonated throughout the jeep as the operators gaped in complete shock. Nobody even flinched when Ghost slammed his foot against the breaks. There was nothing but silence as each man took their time to process what the fuck just happened.

"Ozone you fucking jinxed it!" Scarecrow roared.

But as the realization set in, everything else was blocked out. All of the other operators faded into the background as the world turned gray around him. His vision became faded and all other thoughts were forgotten.

Ghost took slow, deep breaths in a vain attempt to calm the rage that bubbles beneath his skin.

So that's it then, huh? That's what the general had planned?

His grip on the steering wheel tightened and his gloved knuckles turned white. It had happened again. How long would this _torment_ go on before it ceased? After all he'd done, after all the 141 had gone through, going to every corner of the world, scouring every patch of dirt to end the war on terror, fighting through tundras and deserts, skies and oceans, overland and underground, through fire and ice. After sacrificing parts of their humanity, losing friends and family, becoming cold hard killing machines for the greater good. After _he_ lived through months of brainwash and torture, after _he_ was buried alive with the rotting corpses of his comrades, after _his_ family was slaughtered before _his_ eyes, after _he_ was framed and branded a monster to the public, after faking _his_ death and taking on the name _Ghost_ to get revenge, and after dedicating the rest of _his_ mind, body, and soul on nothing but the destruction of evil. _This_ is how General Shepherd repays them!?

At that moment Ghost wanted to do nothing more than rip and tear that bastard to _fucking_ _oblivion_. He wanted to see and feel the pain that he would inflict on his body. He wanted to raise hell on any of the degenerate fuck-wits that dared stand in his way. He wanted to kill.

His rage radiated off of his body, and right now he was possibly more furious than he'd ever been in the rest of his life combined. No amount of words could describe his bloodlust, and at that moment, something awakened inside him. Something never seen before. Something... _supernatural_.

But even with all the rage he felt, he faltered at the feeling of pain in his heart. The pain of being turned on once again by someone he thought he could trust. The pain of his whole world crumbling around him again. The rage left him and his shoulders sagged. His eyes grew cold and his arms began to shake as a tear welled up in his eyes. His head pounded and his body felt weak as the demons came crawling back to the surface.

He hated it. He hated this feeling of weakness, the pain that never seemed to stop. How could he live like this? His entire life had been nothing but an emotional nightmare. He was nothing without his skills and reflexes. Just a scared man running from his tragic past. Why was it always him!? Why was fate always fucking him in the throat!? What did he do to deserve this...?

He glared hatefully into the steering wheel as he made a decision. He vowed that no matter what, Shepherd would—he froze, remembering the documents from the house.

A wave of emotions passed through him as he remembered everything. How could he have forgotten something so important!? As much as he wanted to rip Shepherd's head off his shoulders, he couldn't right now. He didn't have time for it. He would have to trust his squad to get the deed done because _Amelia and Issei were in trouble._

And just like that, the colors came flowing back.

Ghost was broken out of his thoughts when Archer shook his shoulder. He looked over at the ghillie-suit-clad sniper and saw the concerned look in his eyes.

"Sir, are you alright?" The rest of the Strike Team, who had been quarreling amongst themselves in the back, quieted down to listen to the exchange. "We've been sitting ducks for a whole three minutes."

Ghost looked over his squad before he sighed to himself. He let go of the breaks and the jeep started moving again. "No...no, I'm not."

Scarecrow stared at him meaningfully through the rearview mirror.

"Have you ever believed in someone? Looked up to them and maybe even aspired to be like them? Have you ever truly trusted someone, and thought that they'd have your back no matter what? Then, when you think that everything's fine and dandy, they take that trust and snap its spine in half right in front of your face?"

Silence.

"Yeah...that happened three times to me. I'm not gonna go into too much detail. Just know that this ain't the first time I've been thrown under the bus...Scarecrow, you wanted to know why I had to leave?"

He watched through the rear-view mirror as Scarecrow nodded slowly.

"Well...I've got someone important to me. They're all I have after the bastards took everything else...And now? Now, Makarov's going after them."

There was visible shock among the operators.

"Why?" Ozone asked.

"That's what I'm trying to find out. I've got no fucking clue how he knows about them. Not even Shepherd knows, and that bastard knows pretty much everything...Look, mates, I was torn between going after Shepherd and saving them, but I think you know which one's more important to me. I'm going after them, but I need you boys to link up with Price and Soap to tear the general a new one."

Toad was flabbergasted. "You can't do it alone mate! You know what kind of man Makarov is. If he's doing it to draw you out specifically, he'll probably have a whole army behind him just to take you out! What then?"

Ghost breathed heavily. "Then I'll kill them all with my bare bloody hands if I have to. I don't want to rope any of you into this. This one's personal, gents."

Toad groaned and threw up his arms in annoyance. "C'mon mate, you're our squad leader, you know better than that. At least one of us, just to watch your back."

"Yeah," Archer agreed. "Someone that won't fuck you over. Someone unlike Ozone."

Scarecrow snorted even as Ozone jumped to defend himself. "Hey!"

Scarecrow nodded, "I agree-"

"Fuck off."

"-as a matter-of-fact, I think you should take Roach." Said mute perked up at that. "For one, he's the quietest out of all of us dickheads, he can get the job done if you ask, and—correct me if I'm wrong—but I think that the two of you get along better than anyone else in the Task Force except for maybe you and Captain McTavish."

Ghost opened his mouth to retort but paused. Honestly, what was the issue? Sure, it was personal, but what's to say he couldn't bring a friend? Ghost could definitely attest that Roach was capable of taking care of himself on the battlefield. The two of them were also very good friends, enough for Ghost to trust the mute with his life.

Trust...

The lieutenant shook his head, sighing deeply. Roach was different. He _knew_ Roach. The man wasn't like that. He wouldn't do it. "Roach? You in or out?"

The mute in question adopted a curious thinking pose. A moment later he shrugged and gave a thumbs up, signifying his decision. For some reason, that made Ghost feel a bit lighter.

"...Thanks, mate." He sighed again before a stray thought came to his mind. "Say, Archer."

"Hm?" Archer glanced over.

"What attacked us back there? You mentioned that those blokes didn't look like Makarov's men."

Archer's eyes had a confused squint before widening in realization. "Yeah! About that. They didn't look like any soldiers I've ever seen," he mused. "They looked like a bunch of cultists, wearing these dark robes—they didn't seem to carry any weapons either. I think a few of em' raised their hands, and suddenly the whole place lights up like the Eiffel Tower on Christmas Day." He licked his lips. "Next thing I know, you've got a barrage of fireballs coming your way."

Toad twitched. "I saw it too. I thought I was going loony for a bit there. Just seemed like something straight out of Harry Potter...Actually, I think I've got some footage on the shoulder cam." He took a minute to remove said camera, tossing all the threads of his ghillie suit out of the way. Once he rolled the footage back, Ozone and Scarecrow leaned over while Roach loomed precariously from the trunk.

The footage was a bit blurry, but there was a clear image of some figures in the distance. The figures crawled along the screen at a snail's pace and the camera shifted a few times during the video. The footage played for a bit longer until Archer gave his warning from before, and a bright light engulfed the center of the screen.

Not a second later the light died down to reveal several projectiles flying towards the house. They didn't leave smoke trails, so they weren't RPGs—but they did have a large amount of firepower, as evidenced when they exploded on impact. The video continued, playing everything that had happened earlier, cutting off when Toad's recorded image stood up, presumably to get to the jeep.

"Ho-ly shit," Ozone breathed. His astonishment was shared by everyone who had watched the video.

"I don't believe it. How the hell did they do that? I've never seen rockets like those," Scarecrow said.

"That's cause they're not rockets, dumbass. Your teacher ever teach you about context clues? Archer calls em' fireballs and Toad references some wizard shit—it's fucking magic!"

"Bullshit, magic ain't real—if it were we wouldn't be in this mess."

"Then how do you explain a bunch of dudes in robes coming out of nowhere and wrecking our shit with their bare hands from across the damn forest?"

"Regardless," Ghost cut in, "of whether its some fairy tale hocus pocus or not, we've got another threat to deal with. They might be a third party or they could be under Makarov's wing. We need to be prepared for them, whatever the case."

Toad's face scrunched up in confusion. "If these are Makarov's men, then why weren't they the ones guarding his safe house?"

"Maybe they're an auxiliary army of some sort—Makarov wasn't hiding in either of the safehouses after all."

As the boys delved back into their arguments, Ghost took a moment to himself to think up a plan.

At the rate they were traveling, they'd arrive in Armenia in a little over eight hours. It was likely that Shepherd had tagged all cellular devices in that specific country to locate them, which meant no cell phones. He wasn't sure about locating a pay phone either.

They'd also need to secure transportation...looks like some bloke was about to get their private jet stolen...sucks for them.

The Strike Team would be dropped off somewhere in Afghanistan—they could contact Price on a different radio channel to find a good spot. Ghost and Roach, however, would proceed to Japan and attempt an emergency landing somewhere...

The plan was a little spotty but they were on a bit of a time crunch. Ghost only had one day to get there, and he wasn't even sure of that anymore.

There were those wizard guys too or whatever. At this point, Ghost wasn't willing to take chances, and if magic was indeed real, this may be a lot harder than he thought. Whatever, right now he needed to just focus on driving.

Unnoticed by all of them, small white wisps of pure life-energy briefly rolled off of Ghost's skin, even as a much darker power began to manifest on the inside.

With the tidal wave of emotions that had crashed over him in such a small period of time, it was only a matter of time...


End file.
